A spot of yellow,
of buttercup yellow, shone
amongst the grazing grass
and, cunning low beneath the sward,
the ever mist-moist moss:
yellow, risen to bring sunlight
at end of dreary day
This is the pewter hour,
dull dusk’s light loss
drains energy from the fields,
quiets the lambs to lie sheep-shielded,
yet lets night’s beetle see,
above the grounded grass,
an outlived sun remembered
